~ scrittura by jaqo van paulsen

Monthly Archives: August 2012

What could be more stupid than to persist in carrying a burden that we constantly want to cast off, to hold our existence in horror, yet cling to it nonetheless, to fondle the serpent that devours us, until it has eaten our heart?

I don’t dislike other people, I just don’t care to talk to them. I thought I didn’t have to. On my home computer, I have one online identity (Jason), on my work computer I have another (Francis), on my tablet one more (Fred), and on my phone, just one more (Lisa). Each has their own e-mail and an account on Facebook, Tumblr, and Twitter. Each identity talks only to the other three and sometimes to themselves. Is there a medical term for a projected personality that talks to itself, which is like talking to yourself once removed? Francis invited Jason and Lisa over to play cards last weekend. Fred got kinda pissed he was left out. But they didn’t really get together to play cards–unless you count the solitaire I played, in which case, Fred was there even though he didn’t get a public invitation. Fred asked me if he had a right to be pissed, but I try to stay out of these things. I mean, directly, that is. I think. Once, I wanted Lisa to be able to call Francis and discuss some guy troubles she was having, but I only have one phone line and there’s been a pay freeze at work, so I really couldn’t justify financing another line. Besides, what would I have done… stood there with a phone to each ear and changed my voice? That’s just ridiculous. Jason and Fred e-mail each other the most and they have these really long, deep philosophical discussions about what it means to be a man in today’s world. I’m almost proud of how honest they are, but I also like that they don’t let their emotions get the best of them. Honest and feeling, but confident and strong. They even found closure on the brief romance that Francis and Jason had–Fred had been in denial about his jealousy, but he finally put it on the table and that’s all in the past.

Lately, though, Lisa has been tweeting with strangers. I don’t like the way she’s branching out from the group. Maybe I’m vaguely uncomfortable with her deceiving “real” users. But maybe she’s only corresponding with other fake personas. Yesterday, there was a bit of a family emergency and I spent the entire day at the hospital with my sister. No access to the web, nor any sort of phone reception. That meant that the gang was not able to talk. Man, were they pissed. The thing is, I tried to explain it to them today. Individually. But they’ve changed their passwords and they’ve blocked me from seeing their profiles and none of them are returning my e-mails…

Reading ASAP’s Fables. Waiting eagerly for the words of the Profit. Deflated condoms and shared needles left on the shore after political high tide retreats. You’re waiting for the ones we were supposed to be. Or maybe we’ve found the enema, and he is us. We is it. But it can’t happen here. Keeping hope alive is not the same as designing it in America and then having it manufactured in China by the scarred hands of Mao’s great, great, great grandchildren. Clowns in the streets twist ballooned puppets into cybertooth tigers. Capital dreams of a 24-hour market cycle. A trading day that never ends. And why should it? Symbols take on lives of their own. Making money by making money. Today you are skilled labor. Paid. Tomorrow your job is gone. Nothing is different about you. Except that you are worth less. Less than zero. Exchange value as denomination in excelsis. Your lips are moving but the only thing I hear is the roar of the digital highway muffled by a soft laptop fan.

Your Tuesdays weren’t always like this. But the boss drops off his kids at daycare those mornings giving you an extra 90 minutes to get to your desk. It started out innocently (these things always do). You forgot to press the floor button for your stop on the elevator. Your nose was probably buried in something you were reading. Most likely, a book. When you looked up only you and another woman remained as you signaled for her to exit first. You got off, too. Started wondering around floor 37. A full 9 stops past your floor. You thought to yourself you can no longer complain that nothing exciting ever happens to you. You wound your way around the labyrinthine hallways hurling enthusiastic “Good morning!”s and “Hello!”s to whomever you crossed. You felt like a completely new person. People smiled. Some returned verbal greetings. It’s like you threw positive, infectious pebbles into a new pond and watched the ripple effect. You ducked into the restroom to see how the other half really lives. Double-fucking-ply?!! The 37s know how to live it up. You found yourself in a portion of the building that’s under construction. “Just passing through,” you slid in between your wink and grin. The workmen gave you appreciative nods. Eventually, you took the southwest elevator back down. You rode down with a floral delivery man chatting all the way. Wished him well and returned back to your set of elevator shafts (northeast), then back up to your desk.

It’s now nearly four months since you started this routine. It’s another one of your Tuesdays. Your favorite day of the week. You come in extra early and you ride the elevators. It really is all about the journey. In the southwest shafts, you’re now known as Linda. You like to ask the well-dressed Franklin about his children who’re both in high school. Talk about a captive audience–temporally limited, but captive nonetheless. He inquires about your amateur acting career (the one that only exists in elevators on Tuesdays, unbeknownst to him). You never travel down these shafts, preferring instead to walk through floor 14 playing a game where you never try to greet the same person more than once ever until you get to the central elevators. If you time it right, which is just around 7:37am, you can ride back down with Lucinda, an older woman who works the nightshift for a call center. Been doing the same thing for more than 30 years. You admire that kind of dedication and you are fascinated by the intricate skin tributaries her crow’s feet fold into when, and if, you can get her to smile. She knows you as Pamela. In fact, everybody in this set of elevators calls you that. If you’ve hit a groove, you’ll sometimes just ride up and down the same shaft for half your improvised Tuesday morning routine. Sometimes you try and hit them all, but it’s a big building and even an early arrival with two hours to spare doesn’t give you enough time.

Today, you thought you’d begin with the northwest elevators. They seem to run just a little faster than the other sets. You like to dress in business pant suits for this elevator. Yes, you do sometimes change outfits between elevators, but never more than three times. It’s just too much stuff to carry. Mentally, you’re getting into your northwest role, Angelica-but-my-friends-call-me-Angel, but your hopes are dashed as you see the “Temporarily Closed” sign. No worries. It’s off to the trusty southwest shafts. You don’t even have to bother changing your outfit. You’ll just say you’ve got an interview today. But these elevators are also closed. Your spirits have been grounded as you head for the central set. There’s no way they can close all the elevators in a building this size. It’s open! The bounce returns to your step. The lobby is packed with people waiting. “‘Morning, Pamela.” You hear this directed your way, but don’t really see who said it. “Hey, Angel!” a friendly female blurts out not even three steps later. “Hey!” you return without looking up. From farther away, someone practically yells “Good to see you again, Grace.” Despite the crowd and the fact that you only used this name that one time by mistake, you know this is directed at you. You can’t be boxed in with these people. With this many yous.

You quicken your pace, keep your head down, and manage to get around the corner to take the stairs. All 28 floors on foot. The first few flights are quick. You’re practically running, looking back over your shoulder. You slow your pace about a third of the way up. You’ve never been so aware of gravity. You can feel individual beads of sweat start from under your bra strap and roll down your spine until they hit your waistline. Your legs ache. By the time you reach the door to your actual floor, your tears have ruined your eyeliner. You open the door. The faint hum of fluorescent lighting greets you and Tuesday looms like a set of endless cubicles.

If I had the time, I’d tell you a story, but they’re after me and I really don’t have the time to spare. You insist? Really? I’m flattered. Maybe I could just plant a seed. That’s all you really need. Everyone else is trying to immerse you in an experience, trying to cram a whole narrative through your eyeballs as if you lived to be constantly distracted… entertained.

It’s a Thursday. Nothing special about the day. Early fall in a suburban enclave. Can you smell the fallen leaves? They act like a carpet dampening our characters’ footfalls as they walk hand in hand. Their steps fall in sync as if they’d been together for years (37 to be exact). The state college a mere half hour’s distance on leisurely foot. They’re headed to see the latest film at the arty, retro movie theatre. One of those rare couples that enjoys the same culture. At the same time. Dinner and a movie. Routine. The kind that wears carpets thin. But in a lived in sort of way, not a sad, pathetic monotonous one. This is a seed I’m planting. We’re planting it together. In your head.

“Two tickets for the seven o’clock showing,” the man says. He pays the student who runs the ticketbooth while his wife studies the posters of future films. He holds the door open for her. She enters and they head into the dimly lit theatre. She picks their seats two-thirds of the way back from the screen. A handful of other patrons stroll in over the next few minutes. The lights go dark. Previews of future movies take almost seventeen minutes. About twenty or so minutes into what appears to be a very promising piece of art, Helen gets up and tells Dale she’s going to use the restroom. He chuckles. Finds this an endearing habit of hers. He quickly gets sucked back into that almost hypnotic state good film induces.

He looks down at his watch. How long has she been gone? She’s not usually this long. He decides to wait another five minutes, but another eleven pass as he gets sucked back into the projected escape. He doesn’t want to miss anything, but is genuinely worried about Helen. He leaves the theatre. Stands awkwardly in front of the women’s bathroom. Knocks tentatively. Hearing nothing he knocks harder. Opens the door a few inches: “Helen?”… No sound. “Helen?!!”

“Is there a problem, sir?” one of the ushers asks. “My wife has been gone for a while. I’m worried about her.” he replies. “The woman with the pretty grey sweater?” “Yes. That’s her.” “I’m pretty sure she walked outside about a half hour ago.” He stands blinking. His brow furrowed. His hands straight at his sides. “Uh… maybe she needed some fresh air” he says.

Dale walks through the front door. Looks around for Helen. No sign anywhere. It’s quiet and peaceful. A few students are sitting across the street on a bench enjoying the leisure of youth.

Helen is not coming back. She has left for good. It is hard to say whether this was premeditated. Dale leans down to pull the wet leaves off the bottom of his shoe. Wipes the wet dirt upon the sides of his thighs. He turns and goes back into the theatre. His spine is slightly more curved at the neck.

What is this madness! No longer can I flee these twenty-six horsemen. For more than a decade, I have run. I have hid. Cowering before their power. Disgusted by their immutability. Infuriated by their impotence. Enraged at my inability to defeat them. I run no more. I take the fight to them. I inject myself into their midst like a virus. Together, we’ll become indistinguishable upon these electrified networks. A twisted semblance of the other embedded in a digital database. There is only this moment. -Jaqo